


The Scone Split

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [19]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Written in and posted from the South West, though I’m in Somerset, not Devon or Cornwall. Had a request to take these guys to Cornwall after their Yorkshire jaunt, so here we are. I’ll reply to all the lovely comments on Hobbes’ birthday pieces when I get home - I have been reading and appreciating!This was a bit bitty and rushed, hope it reads okay. No time to edit if I wanted to post from here...





	The Scone Split

**Author's Note:**

> Written in and posted from the South West, though I’m in Somerset, not Devon or Cornwall. Had a request to take these guys to Cornwall after their Yorkshire jaunt, so here we are. I’ll reply to all the lovely comments on Hobbes’ birthday pieces when I get home - I have been reading and appreciating!
> 
> This was a bit bitty and rushed, hope it reads okay. No time to edit if I wanted to post from here...

“Right, seeing as we’re stuck here for a few hours,” Strike said, steering Robin into a small tea room, “you need to sample some local culture. We like to give Northerners a taste of a proper cream tea.”

Robin followed obediently. She liked this confident, relaxed Strike. They’d been to Devon together before but never Cornwall, and she had seen at once that he was more at home here. He knew his way around, easily manoeuvring the old BMW down tiny, winding roads, reversing neatly into passing places, sitting patiently behind tractors. He just seemed to belong, in a different way to the way he did in London.

They were down for a night to interview a couple of artists who were supposedly the target of a sophisticated fraud ring, using the works of lesser known artists with the canvases of better known ones attached inside the frames to get works in and out of the country. It was a long and complex trail, and working out who was involved and who was an innocent victim was proving tricky. Strike had decided that he and Robin would interview all the artists themselves rather than have Hutchins or Barclay do any, and so here they were in St Ives. Robin hadn’t known there was such an art enclave down here, tucked away on the far reaches of the Cornish coast.

“So we’re quite far from where you grew up?” she asked now as they sat down at a tiny table in the little tea room. Strike looked massive in the small space, far too big for the chair he was sat on, the dainty chintzy plates and cutlery making his hands look even larger.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d mind popping in to St Mawes on the way back up tomorrow? I can’t really pass so close to Ted and Joan without stopping to say hi. You don’t have to come, you could go shopping or something if you’d rather.”

“I don’t mind,” Robin replied, hanging her jacket on the back of her chair. “I like Ted and Joan.” They’d visited the office a couple of times, and she’d got along well with them. Ted was large, like his nephew, a man of few words but a broad smile. Joan was small and quick, birdlike and chatty.

“Two cream teas, please,” Strike said to the waitress, and she smiled and nodded, disappearing to bustle about in the little kitchen through a doorway behind the counter.

“Shame you can’t stay longer,” Robin said now. “I could go on back on the train?”

Strike shook his head regretfully. “We’ve got too much on,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s good to be busy, good for the business. But I’ll come back down for a few days when it’s quieter.”

They chatted about the case for a while, discussing the artist they had just interviewed, and Strike made notes on his notepad. He wrote down several things Robin said, and her heart swelled with pride. They had worked together for a while now, but it still gave her a thrill when he added her ideas to his and looked at the whole.

Their pots of tea arrived, and a warm basket of scones, a pot of cream and another of jam. Robin suddenly realised how hungry she was.

Strike grinned at her. “You won’t need any dinner after a proper cream tea,” he said. “It’s really filling. We can go and dump the car at the B&B after this and see if we can find a good pub.”

Robin laughed a little and shook her head, spooning cream onto her scone. “What are you like?”

“Hey, I have to have a couple of pints of Doom Bar while I’m here. It’s much nicer down here than in London. It either doesn’t travel well, or the locals treat it with a bit more respect.”

Robin smiled softly. “I’m only teasing you,” she said. “I’m happy to go to the pub. A couple of wines and I shall sleep like a log. The air down here is so clear and fresh. It reminds me a bit of Yorkshire.”

“How come?” Strike poured his tea and indicated with the pot. Robin slid her cup towards him. She watched his large, capable hands deftly managing the dainty china and felt a sudden surge of desire. He was so big, so masculine, in this quaint little shop that just made him seem larger.

“Um...” She had half forgotten what she’d said. “The hills, I guess, and the fact that it’s rural, and local... It’s softer than Yorkshire though.”

Strike tipped his head on one side. “It’s not as stark, at this time of year,” he agreed. “It’s pretty battered by the weather in winter, though.”

Robin nodded, still a little distracted by his hands as he set the pot down again. She realised she was staring and hurriedly raised her eyes back to his, a tiny flush blooming across her cheeks.

Strike was gazing at her, a slight questioning look on his face. He leaned towards her across the little table, and Robin’s breath caught in her throat. His eyes held hers.

“Ellacott,” he murmured.

Unable to speak, Robin nodded. He held her gaze a beat longer, then his eyes dropped to her plate. “What the fuck have you done to that scone?”

“I— I mean— What?” Stammering, nonplussed, Robin looked down at her scone, sat innocently in front of her. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s an abomination, that’s what’s wrong with it.” His eyes twinkled at her as she glanced back up at him, uncertain.

“Wh— Why?”

“You’ve put the cream on first.”

Robin stared at him. What was this? Had he entirely taken leave of his senses?

“Um, yes,” she hazarded. “Because it’s...replacing the butter?”

Strike gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head sadly. “Such terrible judgment,” he said. “I’m disappointed in you. And—” he added, glancing around furtively, “—people have been marched back across the Tamar for less.”

Robin blinked. “Cormoran Strike, what on earth are you talking about?”

Strike laughed his big laugh and sat back. Robin cast her eyes across to his plate. He had indeed put the jam on his scone first, cream on top as a garnish.

“It’s a whole Cornwall/Devon thing,” he explained. “Google it.”

Robin gazed at him. “Are you taking the piss?”

He grinned. “I’m really, really not. It’s taken very seriously down here. You’re in Cornwall, and that’s proper Cornish cream you’ve got there, not that Devon muck. And you have made a Devon scone with it. You’ve dissed it by putting it under the jam.”

Robin shook her head. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Strike picked up half of his scone and took a huge bite. “’s important,” he said round a mouthful of cream and jam. “Culture.”

Robin took a smaller bite of hers, wondering how it could possibly make any difference to the taste which way around the cream and jam were. A small part of the back of her mind was also frantically trying to analyse whether she had imagined an almost-moment between the two of them. Had he felt it too? Was he deflecting? Or was he genuinely oblivious?

Whichever it was, the moment was gone.

She turned her attention to the other, naked, half of her scone. “Right. Jam first, then?” she asked, and Strike nodded approvingly. “When in Rome...”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a genuine thing, taken very seriously in the South West, as illustrated by [this article.](https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/cornwall-cream-tea-scone-advert-locals-outrage-jam-cream-devon-lanhydrock-house-garden-a8251516.html%3famp)
> 
> I’m from Devon; I make my scones like Robin did here. 😍


End file.
